


Transit umbra, lux permanet

by YouCantWashOutGhost (axm)



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Filler, Romance, come back, internal affairs - Freeform, mostly canon compliant, post-ep, pre-season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axm/pseuds/YouCantWashOutGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just lie with me, Kens. You make it all easier," he murmured, turning his head away from her, avoiding those concerned eyes. The double-meaning not lost on either of them. (Starts as a pre-S7 fic, and then ends up an AU post-ep for Internal Affairs - with some Come Back hints at the very end). Rated T for language and adult situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transit umbra, lux permanet

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked: 31 post IA (not smut) lol
> 
> 31 = "Wow! I did not see that one coming."
> 
> This took me forever. Sorry, Anon!  
> The prompt fill is the last part of the fic. I realised, as I wrote it, I had the answer to the BLOCK that had been plaguing my hiatus IA fic. I did a quick polish on that fic (pulled it from ffnet, rewrote and renamed it, and because of that the beginning may seem familiar to a few), filled it in with things we've learned since, and tweaked the final section as the eps kept airing and this fic still wasn't finished. It's been one hell of a work in progress. I originally tried to keep this as canon compliant as possible but the final section is definitely AU. So, it starts as a pre-S7 fic, and then ends up an AU post-ep for Internal Affairs - with some Come Back hints at the very end.

**Transit umbra, lux permanet**

* * *

_I'm forced to heal, but I'm broken on the inside._

* * *

Max's relationships never lasted. They weren't ever meant to, those undercover kisses and faux attractions. But Max and Marty's carefully constructed line of demarcation blurred more often than either cared to admit. He lost himself in the character, forgot who he was, and did things he swore Marty never would.

But Marty had done them too.

He wanted to forget Afghanistan, tried to never think about it, what she went through there – what he did to get her out of it. But she would never forget what was done to her there, and acts like his must never be forgotten. On many a sleepless night he had almost convinced himself Max had been responsible, that they had been Max's hands tying the cloth over the man's face; Max's hands pouring the water. Max Gentry, the torturer.

But lines always blurred.

He knew why IA was digging around; he could lie ( _so well_ ) all he wanted, but he knew the truth. They were on to him. And they would find proof. Because as much as he tried to deny it, Marty Deeks was a cold-blooded killer – and karma was a grand old bitch.

* * *

"You were restless last night."

Deeks rolled onto his back on the mattress and turned his head, to find an annoyed Kensi rubbing her shin, lips pouted, brow furrowed, giving the guilt trip everything she had. _Restless_ : her polite way of saying he had spent the night kicking her.

The dreams that had haunted him scattered like cobwebs on the wind as he brushed a hand over his face. Composing himself, he went with humor, an old, reliable friend.

"Says the starfish."

"Starfish don't kick," she reminded him.

"No, you just... spread-eagle onto my side," he told her, throwing his arms out, almost grazing her skin with the tips of his fingers as he re-enacted her pose. "I was competing for space."

She sat up and raised an eyebrow at him, not making any attempt to keep the sheet covering her. "You don't like me spread-eagled?"

His eyes met her bare chest and he swallowed thickly. "Not when I'm asleep and can't enjoy the visuals."

"Enjoying them now?"

He didn't lift his eyes. Rolling onto his side, he rose up on his elbow and pressed his lips to the side of her arm, the start of a hot trail up to her shoulder. "How about if we get you down here and into position," he murmured against her soft skin, before tugging her down the bed until she was on her back. "Enjoyment definitely growing."

"Not the only thing that's growing," she replied just moments before his grinning lips covered hers. She threw a leg over his hips and undulated against him, just a whisper of contact, little more than a tease.

His fingertips pressed into her warm flesh, his palms curled around her waist, and he tugged her as close as he could, breathing a contented sigh into her mouth. She was so good at pushing away the darkness inside of him, so good at grounding him and helping him forget all the horrors he had done-

And then she broke the kiss and the corners of her full lips turned down. "I can't get it out of my head." She shook her head as she spoke, as if to clear it of the images haunting her.

Deeks eased back, but his hands kept hold of her, not letting her pull away entirely. "Can't get _what_ out of your head?"

Kensi's strong body stayed pressed against his side, but her leg loosened over his hips, and her pelvis tilted away until the salacious contact was lost. Her eyes grew darker, and her features tightened, and the moment was gone.

"Afghanistan," she murmured, her voice gentle now.

"What they did to you?"

"No, what they did to you," she corrected him. At his furrowed brow, she said, "You talk in your sleep."

He sighed in defeat. "I dream about it sometimes."

"I know." Her lips pressed to his shoulder, a lingering touch so soft it almost broke him. "Me too."

"Different dreams," he said.

"Different memories," she reminded him. "Want to talk about it?"

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"Really talk about it."

"No."

"Me either," she admitted, her breath warm against his skin.

"Just lie with me, Kens. You make it all easier," he murmured, turning his head away from her, avoiding those concerned eyes. The double-meaning not lost on either of them.

She stayed beside him, body pressed to his, one hand resting above his heart, the other slung low across his waist, her breath fanning out over his skin, her eyes boring into him. He didn't need to look at her for evidence of the last one. He felt it just as keenly as her touch on his skin, perhaps more so.

This beautiful thing they had was going to shatter one day – and it would be entirely his doing.

He held his breath, and waited.

* * *

The topic came up again after lunch, his own lunch almost following. The burrito probably wouldn't have looked - or tasted - any different, but he was pleased he somehow managed to keep it down despite the nausea swirling inside his gut.

"It changed you?"

He turned to her from the passenger seat, the car parked on the side of the road, her eyes viewing their targets through a camera lens and never meeting his. "What?" he choked out.

"You said that, or a mumbled, sleep-garbled version of it anyway," she replied. "Afghanistan changed you."

"Yeah, well, it changed you too," he fired back, his tone so childish he half expected a string of 'did not', 'did too', to follow.

"But you're the one dreaming about it."

"You dream about it too."

"Not so much anymore," she replied, still snapping digital pictures, sending them through to Eric, still doing her job, despite the conversation inside the car. "But," she continued after a moment's silence, her voice solemn, "there are nightmares, I have them a lot. You're tied to a chair, face swollen, blood dripping down your chin, staining your shirt..."

He suppressed a shudder.

"And in those dreams I do things to the men that hurt you that I wish I'd been able to do in real life."

His eyes bored into her profile. "Sometimes words mumbled in sleep are nonsense."

"Sometimes," she agreed, still not facing him. "But not this time." Pulling the camera away from her face, she finally turned to him. "If I ask you again if IA's going to find anything, can you answer that question now?"

"My answer is still the same," he replied, his jaw so tight his mouth barely moved.

"Your dreams tell me differently." When he didn't respond, didn't deny her words, she asked, "Did something happen there, something more than what I went through. Deeks, did you…"

Eric's voice buzzed in their ears, and Deeks cleared his throat and responded with as much of his usual spark as he could.

"It's not Afghanistan," he told her once the conversation with Eric had ended. "That much I know."

"Deeks," she began, her voice low, like if she said his name any louder than a whisper the world would know all his secrets.

"Kens," he warned. "Don't."

But the cracks had formed, and this wonderful thing they had was beginning to splinter.

For a moment he couldn't breathe.

* * *

Internal Affairs could kiss his gloriously tanned ass ( _Kensi's words just moments before they'd entered the Mission, though he had vehemently agreed_ ). He wasn't scared of them, wasn't thinking about them, or what they thought they knew. He said it out loud as they picked up dinner, and the look he received from Kensi made it clear she wasn't buying a word of it. He wasn't either.

"It's Friday," she mused around the last eggroll, her feet tucked under his thighs on his couch, spork in one hand, beer in the other. Swallowing, she turned her head away from him and focused her eyes out the window, watching the light begin to fade as dusk settled over the city.

"TGIF," he quipped before taking a long pull of his own beer, but he could hear the lack of conviction in his words, and as she turned to meet his eyes he saw the joy an approaching weekend should bring absent from her gaze.

"Go bag in the trunk?" she asked.

"Always."

"Then let's go."

He raised an intrigued eyebrow at her words. "Where?"

"Don't care. As long as they allow dogs."

"Please tell me you mean Monty."

She cast a glance down at the furry lump curled up on the floor, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, of course, he's definitely coming, you, on the other hand..." She lifted her chin and gave him a sly smile.

He wanted to smile, but a tug of fear twisted his heart.

"I don't even get a _touché_ for that?"

"Touché," he said to appease her. "But why?"

"Why the touché or... why the sudden need to go?"

He nodded. "That last one."

"You know why."

She wanted to go somewhere they could talk, without this tempest of paranoia in their minds. But even if they went to the moon, he still couldn't tell her everything. Not just yet. "Kens," he began, choosing his words carefully. "There are things you don't know and if I told you, you'd walk away."

"So take me somewhere I can't walk away from. Somewhere so remote it's a two week hike back to the city."

"Most people would respond with, 'Oh, Deeks, I'd never walk away from you.'"

"When have we ever been most people?"

He nodded. "Why now, though. How about next week?"

She shook her head. "Now. Right now." She stood and called to Monty, unhooking his leash as the dog bounded over to her.

"How much do I say in my sleep?"

She gave him a sad smile from across the room.

"Too much," he murmured

"No," she disagreed. "Not enough. Enough to tell a vague story, but there's too much missing, and it's time, Deeks. I can't protect you if you're hiding things from me."

"Most people would say, 'We can't be in a relationship if you're hiding things from me.'" He tilted his head. "But we're not most people, I know."

"We're not."

"I love you," he told her from the couch. "Remember that when you're feeling pure disgust towards me."

"I could never—"

"No," he interrupted, holding up a hand to keep her silenced. "No, you will, and you should. Because if you don't then we have bigger problems."

"Okay," she said in acceptance. "You love me."

He nodded.

"But even if I'm feeling disgust, I'll still love you in return."

His head bobbed again. "I'll try to remember that. I hope we both do."

* * *

_Remember when you lost your mind?_

_Remember when you turned the tide?_

* * *

The small cabin sat on the edge of a sparkling lake, redwoods stretching up and out around them as far as he could see, trees so old countless secrets were stored in their deep root system. Tonight he would burden them with another.

Tonight Kensi would walk away from him.

"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," she said, leaning against a redwood, watching him beneath the glow of the porchlight.

Slinging his go-bag over his shoulder, he shrugged in response and slammed the trunk. "Hope you brought your bikini, Kens." _And some good running shoes…_

"It's midnight, Deeks. I brought beer and cake."

"Good a start as any."

He took her hand, because if this was his last night with her he needed to touch her now, remember how she felt, how her skin, so soft, so warm, pressed into his, how her hand fitted so perfectly in his – and he needed to cling to that memory forever.

His back rigid, body tense, he sat beside her on the two-seater couch, keeping a distance between them, and started at what he saw as the beginning, and he begged her not to interrupt, begged her to just listen, at least until he paused to catch his breath. But he felt like the air had been caught in his lungs for months and there might be no stopping once he began.

She watched him, eyes wide, but still soft, because she didn't know the hard truths yet; her heart hadn't been eclipsed by his darkness. To tell her about Afghanistan, to even consider opening up about IA, he had to go back. Confess it all.

And he prayed she was still at his side when his words were done.

* * *

_The gun was heavy in his hand, too big for his growing palm. The weight of the metal against his skin, how wrong it was to be holding it, thrilled him - and he hadn't even fired it yet._

_"Hit the cans."_

_He glanced at his friend, the same one who had placed the gun in his hands just minutes earlier. "Where'd you get it anyway?"_

_"My old man's stash," Ray told him. Shrugging, he added, "He won't even know it's gone."_

_It was no secret Ray's father had a collection of weapons, some legally obtained, most not. This one? Marty could guess. It was small, but still heavier than he'd been expecting when Ray first held it out for him. Scratch marks marred where a serial number would have once been, and even at his young age it confirmed his suspicions. He'd been shown how to load it, and now it was his. A gift from his best friend._

_"Hit a can," Ray repeated. "Just aim and pull the trigger. No sweat."_

_"Yeah, no sweat," Marty parroted in agreement. He brought the gun up, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The noise surprised him more than the kickback, which he'd at least been anticipating. "Fuck," he swore, ears ringing._

_His friend laughed. "You okay?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"You shoot like a girl."_

_Marty huffed in response; he brought the gun up again, aimed, and fired off another shot. "Do not," he said, triumphant as a can clattered off the top of the wire fence._

_"Fast learner." Ray gave an appreciative nod. "You got one bullet left. Make it count."_

_"That's it?"_

_"Until I can get more."_

_Nodding, Marty flicked the safety, like he'd seen his own father do many times, and pushed the gun down the back of his jeans._

_Make it count._

* * *

"My father was an asshole."

Kensi cocked her head, but didn't speak, she just sat at his side and listened.

"He beat my mama, Kens. Really beat her. Me too, but that I could live with. Every blow he dealt mom darkened me a little more. I was eleven when I was so overcome with rage that I couldn't let it happen again."

Her hand dropped to cover his, her fingers curling around his palm. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and when she couldn't keep the words in, she said in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry you both went through that."

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, something to say he'd heard her words, but it wasn't her fault so don't be sorry. Out loud, he said, "I tried to stop him, I did. I swear. I got between him and mom once and was hit so hard I blacked out." A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. "My first concussion."

"You were a kid," she reminded him, shuffling closer as she spoke, pressing her body against his. "You didn't stand a chance."

Not with his fists, no, he hadn't. With his gracile limbs he'd been a lightweight. But with a gun, with something that bastard had been scared of, he'd held all the control. In the few seconds it had taken to drag the gun out the back of his jeans, aim, and fire, his father had felt fear. And little Marty Deeks, with one bullet, had saved his mother.

"I watched him hurt my mom," he said. As he spoke he found himself shifting away from her, putting the distance between them that he thought she should seek, but she only followed him, her body moving with his, retaining the contact. "I swore it wouldn't happen again."

Her hand squeezed his again. "You shot him."

"Got the bastard in the leg. I'd been aiming for his head." He laughed, not for the words he had just spoken, but for the ones he was about to say. "He was lucky it was only the third time I'd ever fired a gun." Lucky. They'd all been so lucky that day. His father hadn't lost his life, Marty had ended up in Juvy for a month before being released back to his mother, his community-based punishment more for the illegally obtained weapon than the act of self-defence, and his mom had finally been free of the bastard.

"You were protecting your mom," she reminded him. "You were both good people in a bad situation."

"I did it to protect her," he agreed. Hearing her say it first sent a twinge of hope through him. Maybe she would understand; maybe she wouldn't leave him. The worst truths were yet to be said though. He took a breath, and forced them out. "But I'd wanted to kill him. That had been my intention, to put a bullet through his skull and end it." All emotion seemed to drain out of him as he asked, "Am I still a good person for thinking that?"

Her voice was low as she replied, "But you didn't kill him, Deeks."

"No. But that moment? It changed me."

She shuffled closer to him, the couch cushion beneath him pulling as she shared it with him.

"I swore I'd never be like him," he promised her. "I swore I'd never hit a woman, and would never let anyone else." He'd waited too long, watched his mother endure countless beatings. Too many hospital visits; too many lies. He hated himself for it still. "I let it happen to my mom for too long."

"You didn't let—"

"Kens, please," he begged. "Just let me get through this."

She nodded, silent again.

"I once wanted to take someone's life, but I failed to." He freed his hand from hers, balled both into fists and pressed them into his thighs, before admitting, "In Afghanistan. I could have so easily done it. I knew how." Nausea swirled low in his stomach and he closed his eyes, like doing so might hold it back. But the memory was still too raw, the image burned forever into his mind. "I saw a photo of you. You, on the ground. Bound. Throat slit. I thought you were dead." Swallowing against the rising bile, he stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her eyes, knowing if he looked at her now he'd never tell her the truth. "And in that moment, it would have been so easy to take a life. But I couldn't. So I … I water boarded a man, Kensi. I tortured him to get to you, to get you back, the whole time thinking I might only be taking a body home." He would have lifted her off the dirt, her lifeless body, empty and pale and limp in his arms, carried her to the helicopter, handed her over to Callen, knowing she would be watched over, and then he would have picked up the nearest weapon, and cut every single one of those bastards down. He would have left their bodies out in the burning sun, without a backwards glance. He could have lost her, himself, everything, that day.

"You didn't kill him," she whispered.

"I did actually," he replied, his tone laced with bitterness and regret. "In making the exchange I sentenced him to death."

"You didn't take his life, Deeks."

He could argue it all night. Instead, he shook his head and said, "I did something unforgiveable. Again. Strike three." He clenched his fists painfully tight, until his knuckles were so white he wasn't sure blood would ever flow back through them. His short, clipped nails dug into his palm, and he punished himself with this pain as he said, "IA isn't sniffing around because of what I did to my father, and it's not what I did in Afghanistan, but something that happened in between." He faltered and then shook his head. "And I can't tell you any more tonight. But it's building. They're coming for me."

She let out a resigned sigh, but her tone held no frustration, only understanding. "You won't tell me until after they arrest you."

He nodded, and finally turned to meet her eyes. "You know I can't."

Keeping the distance between them, what little there still was, Kensi dipped her chin, a small nod to show she accepted that answer for now, and then graced him with a soft, rueful smile. "You shot your father to protect your mother, and you did what you needed to do to get me back," she reminded him. "You saved me, Deeks, and I can only imagine that whatever IA thinks it was that you did it was for similar reasons. You're a good man, whether you believe it or not, and sometimes, to protect those we love, the dark side wins."

He looked away, and she laid a gentle hand on his thigh, the touch enough to force him to drag his eyes back to hers. Instead of the anger and fear, the hurt and disgust he expect to see, there was a softness and warmth in her gaze that sent a surge of hope through him.

"That dark side?" she said, her hand still resting on his thigh, "It's brief, Deeks. It only wins for a little while." Her hand moved from his thigh to his curled up fist, and with a careful touch she unfurled his fingers and slipped her palm into his. The distance between them gone, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Tell me when you're able," she murmured against his skin.

"I will." He blinked his eyes rapidly in disbelief, and fought against the burn of threatening tears. "I told you I tortured a man and you're still beside me."

Her brow furrowed. "I believe you did what you had to do," she told him in a slow, measured tone, choosing each word with care. "I believe you were out of options. I believe you thought I was gone." Her hand squeezed his, a reminder she was still there, with him now. "I can't sit here and honestly say I wouldn't have done the same thing in your shoes. So who am I to judge?"

"You wouldn't have done the terrible things I did," he said, shaking his head. He tried to ignore the waver in his hand, and gripped hers tighter to suppress it. "You couldn't."

"Until I'm in that position, I can't possibly know what I would do." She reached out and smoothed his hair aside, and pressed another kiss to his skin. "You saved your mom, and you saved me. Who did you save in between?"

He understood the reality of her question. He'd wanted to kill a man, but had failed. He hadn't wanted to kill another, but could have done it so easily. And in between? In between he had. He'd fired one shot, and in doing so had saved one life, possibly his own as well, but taken another.

And if he knew Kensi at all, he knew she would have all the pieces put together before morning. By dawn she would know it all.

But he still wouldn't be able to confirm it.

He couldn't.

Because in doing so he would drag her deeper into his own darkness.

And suffocate her as well.

* * *

With her hand in his, she led him to the bed in the small cabin, the clock on the wall ticking closer to three AM with each step they took. He hadn't answered her question, instead they'd just sat quietly for close to an hour, her cheek pressed to his chest, his fingers combing through her hair. The ticking clock, the sighs from the sleeping dog at their feet, and the soft puffs of their own breathing the only sounds in the room. Her arms wrapped around him, like she was his aegis, protecting him, and maybe she was. When sleep beckoned, and the sighs turned to snores, he took her hand, helped her step over Monty, and led her towards the bed.

"Did you know?" he asked as he walked at her side, his question as hesitant as his steps.

"About Afghanistan?"

"Yes."

"Yes," she said. "I've held your hand though nightmares. I've heard the words you've shouted before waking yourself up."

"You were always asleep when they woke me."

"No," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "I wasn't."

"Oh." He blinked. "Why didn't you—"

"You would talk when you were ready." Pulling her shirt over her head, unclasping her bra, she let the items drop to the floor, a Kensi clothing puddle at her feet. "But waiting became too hard, it hurt to watch you deal with it by yourself. So I pushed." She peeled the jeans off, her panties, shoes and socks, and left them scattered beside the bed.

His own clothing was placed neatly on a small chair in the corner of the room, and neither commented on the other's placing of their clothes. They slipped beneath the comforter together, and rolled onto their sides, eyes meeting in the low light, in this unfamiliar place.

"Please don't push me for the one thing I can't tell you, Kens. You can't…"

"I know," she said, her tone hushed. "I get it."

"I'm sorry." His voice broke as he apologized; she deserved so much better than him.

"Don't," she warned, her hand reaching out to rest on his chest, her palm covering his heart. "I know you're sorry for whatever it was you did, and I know you're sorry for not telling me."

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered. "You should be walking out that door."

"I've learned that walking away is never the answer. I'm not the same person I was a decade ago, and a big part of not being her anymore is because of you." Her lips found his, and she kissed him with a sweetness he could never deserve. "You're a good man," she murmured against his lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I love you so much," he said on an exhaled breath, before filling his lungs with her.

* * *

_And all these memories keep flooding back again._

* * *

_"Tiffany?"_

_"He's gonna kill me."_

_"Who?"_

_"Boyle."_

_His knuckles turned white as he clutched at his phone, the small, plastic burner only a handful of people had the number for held tight to his ear. "Where are you?" he asked, desperation and fear seeping into his tone._

_"Hiding," her whispered voice admitted. "Behind the dumpsters."_

_"The motel?" he asked._

_"Same," Tiffany told him. "Always the same."_

_"I'm coming, Tiffany," he promised her. "Just stay there. I'm coming."_

_"Hurry," she whimpered._

_He ran. As fast as he could, to his car, not taking the time to fasten his seatbelt, just hitting the gas. He sped through the streets, sirens wailing as long as he dared keep them on. He turned them off, before he got too close, and closed the last of the distance on foot again. Running, gun drawn, anger coursing through him. No Boyle in sight, Deeks slipped down the alley, whispering Tiffany's name as he drew closer.  
He saw a flash of her blonde hair. "You okay?"_

_Sliding out from behind the dumpster, she crumpled to her knees, an arm wrapped around her stomach as she folded over forward in pain. "No," she gasped out. She raised her chin, and as the orange glow from a window above bounced off her cheek, he saw it all. The stark grazes, the tear tracks, the blood. And, God, she was so young. Seventeen. Barely. In daylight, in jeans and a hoodie, she looked fifteen at best. Tonight, working, garish makeup smeared from a man's hand and her own tears, he saw how her life was aging her, and it broke his heart.  
_

_"Why are you here? You've always promised me you wouldn't touch him."_

_Dropping to his knees before her, fury burned through him as he took in her appearance; pushing it down, he cupped her damaged face in his palm with a gentle touch and gave her a weak smile before checking her over. She allowed it, trusting him. Her face would be a myriad of colors by morning, but nothing appeared broken. He suspected a cracked rib or two, but her pulse was strong, and her breathing even, and he felt confident she would be okay. At least for as long as it took to deal with Boyle._

_"Quinn called me. He was gonna set Boyle up. He was supposed to show, but he never came. Boyle beat me."_

_"Where's Boyle now?" he growled._

_"Room sixteen."_

_"Stay here," he told her. "I'll come back for you."_

_She slid back behind the dumpster, both knowing exactly what he had planned for the gun now in his hand._

* * *

He heard Boyle's words as clear as if it happened yesterday.

_"I'm going to kill that bitch. That lying little whore."_

It snuck up on him, when he'd almost forgotten, and filled his dreams with raw reminders of what he had done. If he lied to himself, he could almost believe it was Max. Max who knocked Boyle's gun out of his hand; Max who kicked it away during the struggle; Max who got his hands on it; Max who turned and fired without a breath in between. Max who killed Boyle in that seedy motel room.

He relived every moment of that evening, over and over.

_One round. Pop. Head shot. And then the muted thud of Boyle's heavy weight dropping back against the bed._

He hated himself, not for ending Boyle's life, but for being a coward in the minutes that followed.

_The gun was scrubbed clean, and dropped, on the floor, close to the bed. With care, he'd hauled Boyle's legs onto the bed, mindful of prints, of fibres, of any evidence that might point to him He wiped the door handle on the way out. He was never there._

But to save the life of a seventeen-year-old girl? To save all those who'd been beaten by Boyle, all who would be in the future? Marty would do it again.

He didn't put up a fight when they arrested him; he'd been waiting for that moment for seven years.

But Kensi, staring at him, features tense, eyes wide, hoarse voice pleading for information, made him want to fight. When they booked him, questioned him, oh he'd make them all work hard for any scrap of information he allowed them. He'd stall them. It was all he could do.

_I killed a man, Kensi. I'd do it again. For you, for my mom, for every Tiffany in this world._

The truth hit him like a punch in the gut, and it took every ounce of strength not to drop to his knees and vomit.

"I love you." _Remember that_ , he silently told her. _When you're feeling pure disgust towards me. Remember that I love you. Remember that you love me._

* * *

_Who said life ain't a pretty place?_

* * *

Even with his eyes cast down, towel draped over his head, rubbing the excess water out of his hair, Deeks was aware of her presence as he stepped into the bedroom. He couldn't hear her, couldn't see her, but the tension filling the room was almost palpable.

Dropping the towel until it snaked around the back of his neck, the damp ends hanging over his shoulders, cool against his bare chest, he lifted his head and met her wide eyes. "You okay, Kens?"

She blinked and tilted her head, watching him. "I'm not the one just released from custody. I should be asking you that question." With crossed arms pulled tight against her chest, her back found the wooden frame of the door and she leaned against it for support – but she wasn't slumping. Her muscles were rigid, her body tense, from her feet planted heavy on the hardwood floor, to the deepening lines marring her forehead.

He moved towards her, tugging the loose pair of sweats up when they hung low on his hips, fighting against the nervous air radiating from her. He let go of the waistband and reached for her hand. Trailing the tips of his fingers down her wrist, he eased her arms away from her body until he could encase her palm in his. "I'm good," he promised. "Are you good?"

It wasn't her strongest grip, but he felt her hand tighten around his. "I'm good."

He'd kept so many secrets from her – to protect her. All to keep her off IA's radar. And fierce, devoted Kensi had pushed through her hurt, her fears, and kept fighting for him. All of them had. Hetty, Sam, Callen, Eric, Nell, the whole damn fierce, devoted team. Not because he was Deeks, Kensi's partner, but because he was part of this family now.

Which was more than could be said of the bastards at the LAPD.

The tension had been seeping out of her during their conversation, until her body slumped back against the doorframe, and she relaxed from the touch of his hand in hers, no prison bars between them now. "Watching you go through that, Deeks…" With a sudden tug, she pulled her hand free and swiped at her cheeks, erasing the tears that had slipped out.

"Hey, it's okay." He flashed her a soft smile and eased his arms around her, shifting her away from the solid frame that had been holding her up, and wrapped her up in his own support.

"It's over now," he murmured into her hair. "I'm home."

_Home._

She inhaled a shaky breath that turned into an audible sob on an exhale. His arms tightened around her and he glanced around and took it all in. These walls they had decorated together; these hardwood floors that caressed the soles of her feet as she walked; the staircase she could bounce down two at a time with ease; the couch he tried to keep Monty off of, but still carried fur from the nights she'd run her fingers down the dog resting his head on her lap, both worrying about the detective behind prison bars; the bed they shared, the pillow she had hugged to her chest, lulled to a fitful sleep by the scent of him.

Maybe she hadn't done those last two, but his couch and the mussed bed with the pillow askew and resting mostly on her side suggested otherwise. Now, back where he belonged, his home felt like theirs.

With a light touch, he guided her to their bed, sat with his back to the headboard, and pulled her body to his, until she sat at his side, curled into him, head resting on his shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist. He played with a loose curl, caressing it between the pads of his fingers, and exhaled a broken, "I'm so sorry."

Jutting her chin up, she met his eyes. "You killed Boyle."

He nodded, unable to lie to her anymore.

"To protect Tiffany."

"I couldn't tell you."

"I know," she said, her voice gentle, her eyes soft. "I know."

"I'm sorry," he said again, the words falling out with ease now. Why hadn't it always been this easy to tell her the truth?

Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his. "It's okay," she said, her lips ghosting his as she spoke. "It's okay." She kissed him again, pouring her forgiveness into him.

"I think I'm done," he whispered.

"Done?" she questioned, pulling back to meet his eyes, her own flashing with worry.

"With LAPD," he said. "I think I'm done being a cop." He'd spoken those words before, but his reasons were different now. "I did it, Kens. And Hetty knew, and you figured it out, but still you both stood by me. And Callen, and Sam, and Eric and Nell, they all stuck by me." He heaved in a deep breath. "Maybe they know the truth—"

"It doesn't matter," Kensi cut in. "If they know or not. They would never…." She raised a hand to his battered face and brushed the tips of her fingers across a bruise with a whisper of a touch. She kissed him with the pads of two fingers, like the gentle breeze kissed the Sycamore's leaves on a balmy summer's day. Warm, soft, a ghost-like caress, healing and calm. His face carried the damage done by colleagues, but he didn't need co-workers. He needed family.

"That's why I'm swapping my badge, Kens."

She didn't flinch. Instead, she replied with a strong, "That's why I support your decision."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips tight against her, reluctant to pull away.

"Promise me one thing," she said, her tone firm still, not allowing him the chance to back away.

"Anything," he said, easing back only to meet her eyes, to let her see he meant it.

"No more secrets."

He let out a mirthless chuckle. "You know everything now."

She held his gaze for a moment, and the nodded, accepting his answer. A small smile tugged at her lips. "I have a secret," she said, the words coming out as little more than a whisper.

He leaned in a little closer. "You can tell me anything."

"I let Monty on the couch while you were away."

His nose bumped hers and he smiled. "I already knew that."

Small frown lines appeared between her eyes, but instead of asking how, she continued with another admission. "I hugged your pillow last night to fall asleep."

He kissed her lips, a quick, almost smug, peck. "Knew that too."

She huffed out a sigh. "Your mom wants grandkids."

"Oh trust me," he said, wrapping her tight in his arms, "I knew that a long time ago."

"I told her we'd discussed it," she said, resting her cheek against his chest.

"You what?" he squeaked, jostling her in his surprise. Expelling a groan, he said, "Do you realize what you've done?"

She settled back against him, and he swore he heard her chuckle, swore he felt her mirth vibrate against his chest, before she said, "Yep."

"We need to have a talk about off-limit topics with my mom," he breathed against her hair.

"I mentioned we should probably be living together before we think about kids."

"We should," he said.

Snaking an arm low around his waist, she rested her palm on his hip and said, "Don't ask me."

"Why not?" he whispered.

"You need to believe that I truly forgive you, and you're not there yet."

"You shouldn't forgive me."

She pulled back and met his eyes. "And yet the reality is: I do."

"Why aren't you disgusted in me, all the terrible things I've done?"

"Because they were for the right reasons."

"But who gets to decide that?"

"Me," she said, her voice firm and unwavering. "I do."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

He looked at her, silent as he let the words settle within his heart. Her warm eyes held his, and he smiled. "That thing I'm not allowed to ask you? I might need to ask you soon."

"I'll ask," she said, her tone firm. "When you're ready, I'll ask."

Easing them both down the bed, she curled into him as he lay on his back, her leg slung over his thighs, her palm above his heart, and as she started a trail of kisses across his collarbone, up his neck, he decided, once the papers were signed and LAPD was behind him, a leather jacket would be burned. Max Gentry would die a symbolic death. Lines would never blur again.


End file.
